


just say that you'll bring me along

by braille_upon_my_skin



Series: the world we're gonna make [10]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: M/M, Warnings for a moderately detailed description of an injury, and for implied sexual content.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: "Phillip." Barnum sighs. His voice adopts the soothing low tones that smooth out the frayed edges of Phillip's nerves, all traces of teasing and mischief dispelled. "It's nothing serious, I promise you. I hate seeing you get worked up like this.""And,Ihate seeing you attempt to obfuscate and minimize the stress you put your body through for the sake of this show," Phillip fires back.





	just say that you'll bring me along

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so very, very sorry for the long gap between this part and the previous one. I've been fully engrossed in other projects, and found myself neglecting this one. 
> 
> The reception to this series, as well as my other works for this ship and fandom, has been nothing sort of sensational, and I cannot convey to all of my readers how much their continued support and oodles and oodles of undue praise truly means to me. 
> 
> You guys are the absolute sweetest, and I want you to know that, even if I don't reply to you, directly, I read all of your comments and take every single one of them to heart, where they are cherished dearly.

 

 

\---

 

 

It's a gruesome sound; one that rings out, unnaturally loud, in the large tent space.

From the moment the sharp, gut-wrenching outcry hits the air, Phillip's pulse is pounding and he takes off at a sprint, sliding on his knees through the sand and sawdust in the center ring to get to where Barnum is already attempting to haul himself to his feet.

"I'm fine," Barnum insists the instant Phillip reaches him, hissing through his pasted-on smile in an effort to disguise his pain.

"Let me see it," Phillip demands promptly.

The smile falters. "Phillip, _really_ , I--"

"Phineas, _let me see it_ ," Phillip repeats, an order, now.

Resigned, Barnum rolls up the steadily dampening leg of his trousers to reveal the flesh of his shin scraped raw, pink tissue beneath exposed, and the knob of his knee bruised by a maneuver gone wrong. "I'm still in peak shape and fit to perform," he maintains, unwilling to give up the charade. "I simply need a--"

Phillip cuts him off with a humorless bark of a laugh. " _Absolutely not_. There is no way in _Hell_ you're performing."

Barnum seems ready to challenge him on this, eyes flashing, mouth opening with a protest _undoubtedly_ already forming on his tongue. But, as the rest of the troupe begins to gather around them, alarmed by the guttural, truncated cry of distress as Phillip was, the words never come.

Lettie stands at Phillip's shoulder, and Phillip can feel the intense, horrified stare she fixes Barnum in. "Carlyle's right. You're out of your mind if you think we're letting you prance around on a wound like that."

Out of his peripheral, Phillip glimpses Anne, straight-backed and unrelenting, regarding Barnum with a fierce expression that could level towns and cities, as Phillip knows very well from firsthand exposure to it. "You're sitting today's performances out," she asserts, soft, melodic voice resolute despite the faint tremor to it.

Before Barnum can utter a syllable in argument, Charles cuts in, equally unremitting, "No buts. Take a breather, circus dad."

The oddly endearing name, especially coming from the often irreverent young man, has the ends of Barnum's lips curling into a hint of a smile. A genuine one. Barnum's gaze drifts from his first hire to pan over the faces of each member of his company- all loyally united in a quest to ensure that he doesn't get himself killed in his headstrong obstinacy.

A quest that, Phillip can tell from the look on his partner's face, in spite of his need to uphold his persona of their leader, patriarch, and invincible _king_ , has Barnum _affectionately_ labeling the lot of them 'turncoats', and 'mutineers'.

When Barnum's hazel eyes land on him, once more, Phillip tips his head, cocking his eyebrows in the exact firm, unwavering manner that shatters Barnum's demur deftly as an icepick taken to the surface of a frozen pond.

"Alright, alright," Barnum murmurs gruffly. He offers his hands to Phillip, who takes hold of them and guides him to his feet.

Everyone else falls back, knowing better than to interfere with the pair of ringmasters when the men's focus has tunneled, and all they see is each other.

Transporting Barnum to their office is an awkward undertaking. Barnum's height and solid mass have Phillip's legs shaking and threatening to buckle underneath of him. But, he uses his upper body strength to more evenly distribute Barnum's weight, draping one of the man's arms around his neck and holding it there, and wrapping his other arm about Barnum's backside to clutch at his midsection, fingertips ghosting over the ripples of muscle covering Barnum's ribs.

"If I knew it would result in you feeling me up on the job," Barnum whispers, wearing a wolfish smirk to match his words, "perhaps I should sustain minor flesh wounds, more often."

Phillip's cheeks heat up, despite, and probably _because of_ him willing them not to. He recognizes the lascivious statement as a need to inject further levity into the situation, to diminish the severity of it, and considers tipping to his right _just_ enough for the raised wood encircling the ring to _just_ graze Barnum's injured shin, but ultimately decides that his proclivity toward sadism is in particularly short supply, this morning. "For Christ's sake, Phineas. I leave you alone for not even five minutes, and you manage to rip up your shin."

He nudges the office door open with his foot and carries Barnum inside, using his foot to then bump the door closed behind them. He eases Barnum onto the new sofa positioned neatly a ways from the desk- acquired with typical P.T. Barnum assurances that it would create a "cozier atmosphere" to "liven up" the cluttered and occasionally claustrophobic work environment.

Assured that Barnum is in a comfortable position- _safe_ , for now- Phillip carefully withdraws his hands that he has just realized are trembling, and swallows, aware of his pulse throbbing in his temples. He removes his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his waistcoat, and, with a last look at Barnum to reassure himself that Barnum is still in their office, still not in danger, heads to the sink in the far corner to dampen the cloth.

"You know, if I wasn't informed otherwise," he muses, inflection reproving, as he shuts the tap off and wrings the excess moisture out of the handkerchief with more force- and ire- than necessary, "I might swear that your intention is to get yourself killed, and consequently do me in."

"Phillip." Barnum sighs. His voice adopts the soothing low tones that smooth out the frayed edges of Phillip's nerves, all traces of teasing and mischief dispelled. "It's nothing serious, I promise you. I hate seeing you get worked up like this."

Perhaps Phillip _is_ unduly worked up, and he, admittedly, doesn't enjoy subjecting Barnum to this fretting, fussing, anxiety-riddled side of him that is only conjured into being by the showman's proximity to an imminent threat. It's as if he is holding Barnum accountable for any ulcers or heart palpitations incurred on Phillip's part by Barnum's commitment to the high-flown, awe-inspiring, intensely engrossing and infernally flamboyant spectacle promised in presenting audiences with "The Greatest Show on Earth". Which, is unfair.

Barnum, for all his command of the circus as its self-proclaimed "king"- and the bedroom, in whatever form it takes, and _Phillip,_ during their most private and intimate encounters- has no control over how Phillip responds to things.

However….

"And, _I_ hate seeing you attempt to obfuscate and minimize the stress you put your body through for the sake of this show," Phillip fires back. He kneels before Barnum, jaw quavering and handkerchief poised before Barnum's injured leg. "Pull this up."

Emitting another sigh that contorts into a wince, Barnum lifts the blood-soaked, and likely ruined, leg of his trousers to his knee, and holds it in place while Phillip dabs at the wound, cleaning off the blood still welling out of the exposed tissue.

"I understand," Phillip murmurs, willing the fires of his fury and stabbing, twisting, rending concern and _fear_ to extinguish to mere embers as his eyes flicker up from his task to meet Barnum's, "not wanting to clue Lettie, Anne, Charles, and the others into the not quite so 'magical' aspects of the role you play."

Soft tones, gentle words, and demonstrations of compassion come more easily to Phillip, feel more natural and less unwieldy and cumbersome to steer through, the longer he spends immersed in the warmth and easy sense of family present in the circus and its company. He can now coax startled elephants and horses from, and back into, their pens, allay the wrath of the most fearsome of their lions, and… though he'd prefer the need to do so never arise, comfort other members of the troupe on the loathsome occasion an altercation with a mob of protestors escalates to acts of violence.

Gone are the days when Phillip merely stood safely on the sidelines among the swells, attempting to project an air of indifference with his head held high, nose turned up, and eyes willfully averted from the suffering and straits of society's less fortunate. The days when, as a- poor and ineffectual- surrogate ringmaster in _way_ over his head, all he could do was chew at the interior of his lower lip, ball his hands into useless fists at his sides, and curse himself for his inability to act, to do what is required of him and be who the people he cared for so needed him to be.

The scar marking his forehead, one that has warranted more than a few stares when he pays his old haunts increasingly scant visits with Barnum, or Anne, at his side, is not the only signifier of Phillip Carlyle's transformation into a new man.

"The hardships," he goes on. "The exertion. The physical and mental tolls all of this takes on you… You don't want to ruin the illusion for them, reveal the man behind the curtain more than you already have. But, Phineas…" He pauses, lightly pressing the cloth to the wound. For a fleeting, evanescent flicker of a moment, he imagines he can feel the blood pulsing in Barnum's veins through the layers of flesh and cloth separating them, and wishes to keep that blood pumping, moving, giving Barnum precious, precious life. "You don't need to conceal this from _me_."

"I know, darling." Barnum lifts his free hand to Phillip's face and draws a caressing knuckle down the side of it. "I am truly sorry for the worry I've caused you."

The earnestness of Barnum's contrition snuffs out the last of Phillip's anger; nothing but crumbling, greying ashes remaining in the pit of his stomach.

Drained, Phillip leans into Barnum's work-toughened, yet ever astonishingly gentle hand, and loses himself just briefly, in Barnum's touch. He feels himself remembering how to breathe, his own unnerved, rapid pulse slowing to synchronize with Barnum's. But, he isn't finished.

Far from it.

Pulling the handkerchief back from the wound, and himself out of the momentary lull, Phillip checks the scrape over, once more, needing to be certain, _doubly certain_ , that he has cleansed it of even the tiniest particle of dirt and debris. An infection will take Barnum over his dead body. Unsatisfied with his efforts, he stands, and makes to retrieve the brandy stashed under Barnum's desk.

Barnum fidgets the moment Phillip's back is turned; fully prepared, no doubt, to leap right to his feet and attempt to stride around the office. Business as usual. As though absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary.

And, he damn well will. If not provided with strong incentive not to.

" _Don't you dare_." Phillip turns over his shoulder to shoot Barnum a stern glare.

Barnum freezes, save, of course, for his damned mouth, which twitches into a smirk. "Tetchy," he appraises.

Yes. Indeed.

All of the spirited vim and vigor of a younger man, younger, even, than Phillip's often snidely cynical late twenties, trapped in the, though powerful, formidable, and seemingly _invulnerable_ \- to the point that Phillip, himself, might buy into the shiny illusion of Barnum's untouchability had he not beheld the not-quite-so-glamorous reality with his own eyes- _still_ unfailingly, inevitably _mortal_ and _breakable_ body of a man with forty years and change under his belt. And, his youth gradually receding in the rear windows of a carriage propelled ever forward by time.

_The universe,_ Phillip muses, _operates rather like a chess match that opens with Fate's king three moves away from claiming the player's final standing knight._

In other words, _unfairly_. Oftentimes, exceedingly so.

And, this unfairness, this grave injustice, gives Phillip damn good reason to _be tetchy_.

He grabs the brandy and resists the pressing, _itching_ urge to uncap it and down a swig. Or two. "You're not done being disinfected. And, I need to bandage you up."

The smirk widens. "But of course, doctor."

Phillip rolls his eyes, his lips impulsively twitching at the corners into a go at what shouldn't be a smile. Perpetual humbug. "This is going to sting," he murmurs in warning, forcing images of his own experiences disinfecting the aftermath of one of his "mishaps" at his father's hands with one of the cheaper liquors- he knew better than to squander even a single _drop_ of the quality Scotches, wines, and whiskies- in the wine cellar at the Carlyle estate, out of mind.

Barnum scarcely reacts beyond a minute flinch as the burn of the alcohol comes into contact with his wound.

Phillip's stomach churns with a distinctly nauseous feeling as he tries not to linger on the mental image of an adolescent Barnum being unable to procure any liquor to clean the wounds that he may have- no, _most definitely_ sustained during his years fending for himself on the cold, uncaring streets. He swallows, and reminds himself that the red soaking the creamy white of the handkerchief is from the brandy, and not Barnum.

Not blood. Barnum is safe. He's alive. He didn't die a miserable and agonizing death, huddled, alone, under an awning, or in a barrel in some dank alley, as his body succumbed to a malignant infection.

Breathing in, Phillip finishes, and wobbles as he gets to his feet, once more.

Barnum reaches out and steadies him, dark eyes boring into Phillip. "Are you all right?" He asks softly.

Phillip manages a nod. "I will be when I know that you are."

There is a moment of silence between them, and remorse flickers behind Barnum's eyes. The taste of it is bittersweet going down Phillip's throat.

"I'm thinking I owe you for this. For the trouble I cause you," Barnum says, eyes tracking Phillip's movement as Phillip heads back to the far corner of the office.

"Intriguing proposition," Phillip hums.

It's easier than allowing Barnum to see the full impact of his words. To see that Phillip would gladly halve his own lifespan to restore twenty years of youth to Barnum.

Silent, Phillip hangs the brandy-soaked handkerchief on the side of the sink, lifts the First-Aid kit out of the cupboard it is stored in, and carefully brings it to his partner. Kneeling, once more, at Barnum's feet, Phillip opens the kit and removes the roll of bandages, tearing off a generous strip of the thickly woven gauzy material.

In truth, Barnum "owes" Phillip nothing. This is what being partners entails, what it means and _always_ _has meant_ to Phillip, and Phillip knows that he could never truly, completely entrust Barnum's well-being to anyone else. Irrational, foolish, and selfish as that line of thinking might be.

This is _his_ new part to play, and he wouldn't hand it off or trade it away for anything in the world.

Nevertheless, the prospect of receiving a _reward_ as compensation for his troubles has his attention. Particularly a certain, _shameless_ , muscle's attention.

"I'm listening."

"How does a hot bath and a full-body massage sound?" Barnum practically purrs the proposed compensation, his baritone silky and sensuous, and Phillip's core, as if on cue, strikes alight with newly kindled heat, anticipatory shivers dancing down his spine, teasing flames licking in twirling ribbons behind them.

Winding the bandage around Barnum's shin with care-filled, assiduous precision, Phillip considers aloud, a half-smirk curling the ends of his lips, "I'm still unconvinced that your aim _isn't_ to do me in." He ties the bandage in a small bow, tugging lightly at it to ensure that it's secure. When he is satisfied with his craftsmanship, he raises his eyes to regard Barnum, staring intently at him from under the veil of his eyelashes. " _Slowly_ ," he drawls, adopting a husky lilt that widens Barnum's pupils just perceptibly. " _Meticulously_. In the most pleasurable, hedonistic, and mutually _gratifying_ manner you can think of."

Barnum returns the smirk with an alluring roguishness that clean-cut and "pretty"-faced Phillip Carlyle could never replicate. He tilts his head to meet Phillip's stare with equal intensity, dark eyes glimmering under his chestnut lashes. "That sounds like a perfectly thrilling and remarkably enticing way to go. Although…" He curls his forefinger under Phillip's chin and tips it up, stroking the bow of Phillip's lower lip with the pad of his thumb. " _I_ would _prefer_ to keep you around as long as possible," he breathes.

Phillip _almost_ whimpers, almost emits a keening, mewling whine to confirm that he _wants_ to stay _here_ , at Barnum's side, within his grasp, for as long as time permits.

"But… if 'slow', 'meticulous', 'hedonistic', and 'mutually gratifying' is how you'd like to be undone…" Barnum draws each word out, the rumble of his voice incensing and intoxicating, twining the ribbons of flame around Phillip's pelvis and inciting more shivers of shameless, unmitigated _want_. "What kind of man would I be to refuse?"

With a great deal of willpower, Phillip breaks their eye-contact and the spell it has cast on him. He coughs and declares, "There. That should prevent it getting infected." He adds, with another pointed look at Barnum, "So long as you're mindful not to attempt any knee-slides until it has fully healed."

"Of course, darling." Barnum's smile is light-hearted, his tone mellow and airy. Something in his eyes, however, something dimming the brilliant, magnetic array of colors- amber and gold interspersed with hues of verdant and cobalt- surrounding the impenetrable black of his pupils, tugs at Phillip's core, infusing it with an uneasy sensation. A suspicion.

Phillip has become too adept at reading his partner to not be able to discern when something is wrong. "Phin," he calls softly.

"Yes?"

Pulling himself into an upright position, Phillip moves between Barnum's legs. "This is still your show," he says, taking hold of Barnum's hand and brushing the tips of their noses together as he interlaces their fingers. "It will _always_ be your show. I have no desire to ever _attempt_ to take that from you."

Barnum's mouth opens, the off, melancholy-tinged sort of something fading. "Right. I… Of course." Gradually, a soft smile unfurls across his face, and he closes off the distance between himself and Phillip with a chaste kiss to Phillip's lips. "Thank you," he murmurs,  his voice low, tremulous.

As arrogant and prideful as P.T. Barnum can be, as far-spanning as his, generally, gratingly _massive_ ego is… Even he is need of reassurance. Even _he_ needs to be _needed_.

"Just… tell me, Phin," Phillip says. He searches Barnum's eyes and hears the tremble in his own voice indicative of his heart seeping into his words. "The next time you're in pain, or undergoing a trial. Facing an affliction or some terrible misfortune that brings you suffering and misery… _Tell me_. I want to take care of you the way you take care of me. I… " He licks unsurely at his upper lip, hoping that he isn't overstepping the boundaries of their unconventional arrangement. "I know you have Charity willing to do that much for you, at home, but I-- _I_ want to--"

He's cut off by another kiss; a lingering, feather-soft press of lips that leaves his mouth tingling when they part.

Barnum's hands run down Phillip's shoulders to his biceps, rubbing over them in a manner that quashes all of Phillip's uncertainty. "That's what being partners means," he says, echoing the sentiment Phillip has worked time and again to impart on him, His eyes pour over Phillip, volumes of awe and affection brimming in their bright, honey-colored depths.

Phillip smiles, touching his nose to Barnum's, again. Waves of love ripple out from the epicenter of his heart. "I was wondering when you might finally catch on."

 

.x.

 

They're tangled up in each other the _minute_ Phillip makes his way to the area behind the stands when the last show of the night has come to an end.

Barnum reels Phillip into a kiss, long fingers threading into the closely-cropped hair on the back of Phillip's head, trailing down Phillip's neck to dip into the collars of his shirt and ringmaster coat, running down the plane of Phillip's backside, past the curve in his lower back, over the swells of his ass.

Phillip moans and arches forward on his toes to give Barnum's lower lip a playful nip. "Awfully eager to give me that 'reward' you owe me, I see."

"Well, a performance like that is _more_ than deserving of a handsome, lavishly sumptuous show of appreciation." Barnum growls softly, an approving sound that has Phillip shivering rapturously, mingled excitement and desire coursing through his veins. Barnum nuzzles at Phillip's left sideburn and ear, and murmurs, hot and salacious, "Besides, watching your body move… The proud swivel of those perfect hips, the flexing of those stunning legs, the way your riding breeches cling to your _gorgeously_ shaped rear… I could _hardly wait_ to get my hands on you."

Phillip nearly _leaps_ onto Barnum. but has enough sense about him to recall the man's condition. He elects, instead, to loop his arms around Barnum's neck, backing the both of them up and up until his backside is pressed into one of the columns supporting the stands, allowing Barnum to lean against him. Satisfied with this position, and driven by the ever-vexing and alluring smirk playing on Barnum's face, Phillip pulls Barnum's tall form into him and kisses him with unabated and unabashed hunger burning under his skin, mewling at the back of his throat, pleased, when Barnum matches his voracity.

One hand resting on the small of Phillip's back, the other against the column holding both of them upright, Barnum deepens the kiss, and their mouths crash together in a hailstorm of devouring lips, clicking teeth, and claiming tongue. 

 

.x.

 

Lying prone on the bed in his apartment, the bed that Phillip now thinks of as _theirs_ though it is still much too small to properly accommodate two fully grown men, his hair damp and tousled, cheeks aflame, body simmering with slowly dying heat, and limbs liquefied, Phillip lets out a few more sated moans at the sensation of kisses peppered on his neck, layered over his shoulders, and pressed between his shoulder blades.

He's certain he won't be able to move for the next few minutes if he tries, so he allows Barnum to pull him in close, relishing the showman's body heat as it washes over him. " _God, Phin_ ," is the only phrase remotely approaching coherency that he is able to string together.

"Well…" Barnum purrs, "I believe I've worked every drop of tension out of you for at least a few hours." His voice is thick and oozing with pride and satisfaction, and both are sweet as nectar on his lips when he draws Phillip into another languorous kiss.

Phillip was mindful, of course, to check on Barnum's injury before, during, and after, and changed the bandage following their tryst in the bathtub.

_One_ of them must be a responsible adult, after all. At least, _prior_ to surrendering all sense, reason, and higher mental faculties.

At this approximate moment, Phillip, having surrendered all three, can only hum his agreement. His full, total, arrant agreement. Speech is still beyond his capabilities. And, to think he used to make a living off of his ability to weave words into elegant prose.

This is a testament, he supposes, to Barnum's power over him; Barnum's prowess in making him come undone.

He kisses at Barnum's neck, nuzzles Barnum's Adam's apple and the lightly pricking hairs of stubble dusting his jaw, eyes half-lidded with thoroughly satiated exhaustion, and hoping that the tenderness of the exceptionally syrupy and sentimental ministrations is enough to communicate his deep-seated appreciation for Barnum's ever diverse repertoire.

Though, as the scent of flesh-based enjoyment mixes with the fragrances of shampoos and soaps, a minuscule part of Phillip wonders if the purpose of bathing, in the first place, has been negated, as they might just have to bathe, once again, before going to work, in the morning.

Perhaps everyone in their family is, indeed, aware of the true nature of their partnership, but that's still no excuse for the two of them to arrive at the circus with a faint aroma on their skin that broadcasts their private affairs to anyone who manages to catch a sniff of it.

No excuse for the suggestive looks, the teasing smirks, the crude and _mortifying_ ribbing, and Lord only knows what else, as that's simply what families do, that might ensue.

Phillip is disgraced- and debauched, utterly, _ecstatically_ debauched- enough, as it is. He'd like to retain at least a shred of dignity.

"Mm, love you, so much," he slurs when bits and pieces of articulacy return to him.

"Oh, darling." Barnum hums into Phillip's skin as he kisses his temple, and the scar on his forehead, and the bridge of his nose. "Phillip. Phillip."

Every utterance of his name in _that voice_ brings a smile to Phillip's face, and has him swimming in feelings of completely besotted inebriation.

"I love you more than sonnets and symphonies, than any note of music written by man, can express."

Phillip dimly registers his eyes watering, but reasons that fatigue is the cause. _Fatigue_ , and not a near-overwhelming, irrepressible urge to burrow into Barnum, past his skin and sinew, and excavate a home for himself within the man's chest, curl up, protectively, around Barnum's heart, stake a claim on it, and refuse to relinquish his newfound home at the behest of any force or power in the known universe and beyond. He buries his face in the crook of Barnum's neck and is just beginning to drift off, warm and content in the drafty, dilapidated bedroom even without his blankets and duvet covering his bared skin, because Barnum is _here_ _with him_. Barnum's strong arms and strikingly, comfortingly overpowering essence, wrapped snug around him. _Safe_. Temporarily free of any stressors, and out of harm's way….

Then, he feels the vibrations of speech in the cavity of Barnum's chest.

"My apologies, darling, but before you nod off on me, I want to consult with you about a certain matter."

The slightest noise of protest escaping him, Phillip drags himself back to a place of lucidity and forces one eye open. "You have my attention, Barnum. But, make it quick. Sleep is about as persuasive as you are."

He doesn't need sight to know that Barnum's lips have twitched into an amused smile.

"I'm planning a recruitment mission," Barnum elucidates. "One that involves heading to Connecticut and New Jersey to scout new talent for the show. We're due for some fresh blood. Keeps things interesting, draws larger crowds."

Both of Phillip's eyes open.

Barnum begins to knead at the back of Phillip's neck, a move that Phillip recognizes as a well-versed tactic of persuasion, and as a means for Barnum to establish physical contact with his partner. To steady himself as he tests the waters of another wild idea. "I was thinking we could trust Charity, Lettie, and O'Malley to hold down the fort, here, while we spend a week, or so, out of state, recruiting new acts."

"'We'?"

"Yes. Unless you would rather--?"

"God no," Phillip states, emphatically, without a split-second's hesitation. "I'm going with you. I can't trust you not to happen upon a horse breeder and persuade them to let you stick an ivory horn on top of a mare's head and attempt to pass the poor creature off as a unicorn." _Or,_ his mind goes on, unbidden, _board a doomed train, or get into a carriage accident, or be accosted by a 'fan' who recognizes your face and wants to let you know, without mincing words,_ exactly _how they feel about your purveyance of oddities and aberrations, or wind up setting yourself on fire, or find some new, fantastical way to get yourself killed, or--_

"Now, you _know_ I'm much more creative than that." Barnum's warm, breezy chiding halts the succession of nightmarishly catastrophic scenarios. "Attaching a fish tail to a preserved monkey specimen would be a _vastly_ more daring business vent --"

God, give him strength.

"And, _that_ ," Phillip interposes, "is _precisely_ why you need me to vet every new 'act' you consider."

"Yes." Barnum tightens the embrace, squeezing at the nape of Phillip's neck and coaxing a soft, surprised gasp from Phillip at the stimulation of one of his sweet spots. "I _do_ need you." Barnum's suddenly serious, sobered expression brings about an unprecedented shift in the pleasantly hazy, post-coital atmosphere. "I need you by my side, acting, as always, as my partner. In business, and in life."

Phillip's throat constricts, his heart swelling in the confined space of his chest. "That's what I'm here for, Phin," he promises, softly, more deeply affected than he wishes to let on. He presses a kiss to the curve of Barnum's jaw, wanting to imbue every pore of the showman's skin with his words and their weight so they remain with him long after their sound has faded from his ears. " _Always_."

There is no place in all the world that Phillip Carlyle would rather be than _the other side_ , which, he has come to realize, and should have known from the very start, is with Phineas Taylor Barnum.

 

.x.

 

Bleary-eyed and standing precariously on still sleep-heavy and untrustworthy legs, Phillip conceals a yawn behind a gloved hand and tucks down into his scarf. He checks his pocket watch and curses trains, conductors, engineers, and train stations for operating during hours when he would very, _very_ much prefer to still be nestled in bed, face pressed into either Barnum's solid, sculpted chest, or firm, muscled back, and basking in the wonderful heat emanating from him, and the lulling, languid beat of his pulse. With a shiver, Phillip braces himself against the early morning chill. He slides his watch back into the pocket on his waistcoat, and slips into the slumberous fog clouding his mind, only to startle as a train finally screeches to a stop in front of him, horn blasting.

Movement at his side eases his momentary alarm and grounds him to the present moment. He feels a hand at his back- solid and reassuring- and Barnum's sonorous baritone sails smoothly into his ears. "Shall we?" Barnum extends his cane in a sweeping gesture before them to indicate the waiting train car.

Phillip nods and feels himself smiling at the prospect of being included. Of going on a business-related trip where he is Barnum's _equal_ rather than his underling. Of never again getting left behind. "Indeed, we shall."

They weave their way through lines of other passengers searching for their seats, and find their compartment- a luxurious one with crimson furnishings. Phillip would expect no less for P.T. Barnum, and he grins as he takes it in.

"It's still at least an hour until the breakfast cart comes by," Barnum murmurs, setting his and Phillip's luggage and hats on the rack overhead, and dropping into one of the seats. "I'll wake you, then," he adds softly as Phillip settles in beside him, already listing against his shoulder.

"Sounds like another one of Phineas Barnum's brilliant ideas," Phillip replies, a tired smile tugging at his lips. He nuzzles his cheek into the padded material on the shoulder of Barnum's overcoat, and breathes in, eyes fluttering closed and body going lax.

"Hiring you, my dearest Phillip, is _still_ the most brilliant idea I've ever had."

A pang fires off in Phillip's chest. Barnum's tender, reverential timbre weakens something within him, twisting it into a configuration that is simultaneously familiar and beautiful, and unfamiliar and frightening. He no longer thinks to dismiss such glowing praise, sweet pet names, and staggering proclamations as mere flattery and exercising of Barnum's silver-tongue. This man, this damn, ridiculous man and all of his eccentricity and unwavering desire to ignite controversy, stir the kettle, and rattle the comforting walls and foundations of convention. All of his recklessness, and folly, and honeyed deception. Profligacy and outrageousness.

This unbelievable and exceptional man risked his own life to carry Phillip's unconscious body from a hateful blaze intended to wreak utter devastation.

He enabled Phillip to _stay_ at his side.

Though Phillip has always considered himself a proponent of the pen's might, he knows that Barnum's actions speak with a great deal more volume, truth, and potency than his words. If the simple act of saving Phillip's life and flooding it to the brim and even further, with joy, is not proof that Barnum genuinely _wants Phillip with him_ , Phillip is given all the further substantiation he needs by Barnum drawing him closer and brushing a kiss to the crown of his head.

Feathering a kiss to Barnum's clothed shoulder, in turn, Phillip lets himself be whisked into a contented sleep, happy- _thrilled_ \- to be along for whatever vexing and extraordinary ride lies ahead of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
